


Deliverance

by swordznsorcery



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7187084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordznsorcery/pseuds/swordznsorcery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fandom Stocking fic. Abbie, Jenny and Irving come to the rescue of Ichabod Crane. Set during season one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deliverance

Deliverance

 

In the grey murk of the underground room, Abbie could just make out a pentagram, scored into the concrete floor. A sputtering, tallow candle at each point did little to illuminate it, each tiny, pale flame barely able to hold its head upright. She could see little, but at the same time she could see enough. Enough to know that she didn't want to be here any longer than necessary. 

She swung her torch in an arc, the gun with it, anxious to search each crevice of the room as best she could. In this day and age, one never quite knew what was likely to come crawling out of the darkness, with teeth and claws and gruesome weapons to match. There were no monsters, at least that she could see, but the torch did find something else; and with a quiet curse, she hurried down the awkward steps. 

It was Crane. He hung above the pentagram, suspended by chains about his wrists. So far he was showing no reaction, either to the light or to her approach, and when she crept closer, softly calling his name, he didn't raise his head. It was a stretch to reach his heart in order to check for a beat, but when she found it, it felt strong. She breathed a sigh of relief. He might be an irritating son of a bitch at times, but by no means was she ready to lose him. 

"Mills?" Irving's voice came down to her from above, concern driving away caution. Unwilling to leave Crane's side in order to keep her own voice down, she called from where she was, in the middle of the room. In the middle of the pentagram, with its wilfully spooky, flickering candle points. 

"Clear. I think. And I've found Crane." She cocked her head on one side then, listening hard. Beyond the sound of footsteps on the twisted, uneven stairs, she could hear nothing that might be dangerous. Her own breathing. Crane's as well now, faint in comparison to her own. Nobody else's, which was a great relief. It seemed the only threat present was psychological. 

"He okay?" asked Jenny, coming down the steps behind Irving. The pair of them worked well together, with a natural understanding that might have impressed Abbie, had she not had so much on her mind. She nodded, before realising that it probably hadn't been too visible. 

"Yeah, I think so. For now. Sooner we get him out of here, the better." She lowered her gun, trusting in her sister and the captain to maintain their defences. Their torches swung about the room, probing into every shadow, every corner, and allowing her to concentrate on Crane. He felt cold, the damp darkness of the room infusing itself into his skin. His coat and boots were gone, and his bare feet were too pale, his grey shirt mildew-damp. She wondered how long he had hung here, and had to force herself not to shiver. 

"Getting him out might not be too easy." Away to her left, Jenny was still scanning the room, her calm expertise a reassurance, even if Abbie did not want to think too hard about how she had come by it. "This place is too quiet. I don't like it." 

"Me either." On Abbie's right, Irving closed in slightly, clearly intending to help lift Crane down. "Still, we may have got lucky." 

"I don't think so." Jenny turned her torch to point at the centre of the pentagram. Beneath Crane's dangling feet, there was a rusty red mark on the floor, plain against the concrete in the sudden spotlight. Abbie had not thought to check the ground, and she cursed herself for being too focused upon Crane. 

"Is that blood?" asked Irving. Janny nodded. 

"Blood magic is strong magic. Whatever Crane was kidnapped for is underway, and whoever is spinning this spell isn't going to have left for groceries." Her torch beam leapt away again, and the bloody stain vanished back into the gloom. "You ever get the feeling you're being watched?" 

"I try not to," said Abbie. Irving came nearer, peering into the murk at their feet. 

"How much blood does a spell need?" he asked, clearly envisioning a drained man, beyond all hope of rescue. Jenny grunted a non-committal reply. 

"Depends on the spell. Some would take it all. Others just need it as a token." 

"His heartbeat seems strong," said Abbie. Jenny nodded. 

"Figures. This looks like a summoning. A little blood as a sort of key, some chanting, that kind of thing." She shone her torch down at her feet, scuffing with her boots at some of the odd symbols that marked the edges of the pentagram. "Hurry up and get him down. That bloodstain wasn't too fresh. If something's going to happen, it might happen any minute." 

"You said that his blood was a sort of key," said Irving, as he swung his torch about in search of the best means of freeing Crane. "Any ideas about what's likely to be on the other side of the door?" 

"Honestly? It could be anything. I know the basics, but I'm no expert on flavours of demon. I'd rather just get out of here, and not have to find out." 

"Gotcha." Handing his torch to Abbie, Irving reached up to examine the chains, then abandoned that thought in favour of the simple pulley system that had raised Crane up. He lowered the other man as carefully as he could, whereupon Jenny and Abbie took over. They took a wrist each, and with their lock-picking skills, raced each other to a swift finish. 

"Remind me never to bother hiding anything from you two," said Irving. Abbie almost smiled, but the cold touch of Crane's skin beneath her hands chased even that tiny note of humour away. 

"Can you see his coat?" she asked. "He's freezing." 

"It's over near the bottom of the steps with his boots. I saw it a moment ago." Jenny was already moving away, taking point to cover their retreat. "Grab them on the way out. He can wait a few minutes." 

"Here, let me." Irving bent down, hauling Crane up, and slinging him over one shoulder. It put him rather off balance, but he was strong, and Crane was hardly the largest of men. With a little manoeuvring, the captain was still able to handle his gun. 

"Right," he said, through gritted teeth. "Let's get the hell out of here." 

"Way ahead of you, captain." Abbie took the lead, eyes straining to see everything, ears searching for the slightest suspicious sound. Now that they had Crane back she could feel a tension growing within her; the rising pressure of a job so nearly done, when so much could still go wrong. When the candles around the pentagram all abruptly went dark, it was somehow not a surprise. She had been expecting trouble from the moment she had started down the stairs. 

"I cannot let you leave here with that man." The voice was deep, gruff, like that of a man with a throat filled with smoke. Abbie whipped up her gun and both torches to point towards the sound, and a low laugh answered her move. 

"Guns. How... original." 

"How effective," corrected Jenny. She had her own gun pointing towards the voice too, from a point some way distant from Abbie. Together they ought to be able to catch the speaker in a particularly deadly crossfire – at least in theory. As yet, although it seemed that they were aiming in the right direction, the speaker was completely invisible. His hoarse, gruff laugh came again, and a second later they heard the scuffling of feet on concrete. Gradually a figure ambled closer, coming at last into the splash of light where the three torch beams met. 

He was a tall man, thin almost to the point of cadaverousness, his long, blond hair hanging limply down past a fraying and faded grey collar. Wire-rimmed spectacles clung to his ears, the lens on one side badly cracked, and yet apparently without causing inconvenience. As he came closer they saw that he was armed, with a large, curved scimitar of evident age. Even in the gloom the workmanship was obvious – as was the blood, gathered in the designs etched along the blade. 

"Leave," he said, his hoarse voice scratching the word out of his throat like sandpaper rasping on wood. 

"No deal," Abbie told him, her gun now pointing directly at his head. She knew that Jenny and Irving both had an aim to match her own. She could tell from the angle of Irving's arm, and from the mere fact of who Jenny was. Her sister did not mess around. 

"He's dead anyway, or should be. Why fight a death that should have taken him two hundred years ago?" The man shuffled closer, seemingly unafraid of their guns. The closer he came, the greater clarity was added to his image – to the yellow tinge of his skin, and the lank lifelessness of his hair. As he came closer still, Abbie could see his teeth as well, as drab and discoloured as his skin. 

"Back off," she warned him. He smiled, the expression causing his lips to draw back from his teeth, and his cheek bones to show up in sharp relief. It was the grin of a fleshless skull. 

"Shoot me," he told her. It didn't sound like a challenge, but neither did she interpret it as a plea. Perhaps it was a warning. With all that she had seen since Ichabod Crane had come into her life, she would not have been too surprised to meet a man who was impervious to bullets. 

"What do you want?" asked Irving. If he was suffering under the weight of his burden, it didn't show in his voice. Abbie felt a momnetary burst of relief that he had offered to come along. Crane might feel like her responsibility, but for all that she could follow clues, and track him to his secret dungeon, she could not hope to lift him so easily, and certainly not whilst keeping hold of a gun. 

"You know what I want. I want him." The man edged closer to Crane, and by association to Irving. The captain responded by taking a step closer himself, so that his gun almost touched the skull-like head. 

"You're not getting him," he said. The man laughed. 

"Fine. Leave. It doesn't matter now anyway. I've made the invocations. I've sprinkled his blood, and I've spoken the ritual passages. I doubt you'll even make it up the steps. Not with him." 

"Funnily enough, I got no problem taking you up on that." Irving turned to leave, but Jenny was there in his way, laying a hand on his arm to bring him to a halt. 

"No," she said quietly, and her eyes snapped back to their ruinous host. "What's this about? What is it that you want him for?" 

"For me. For deliverance." Once again the man edged closer to Crane, as though the unconscious Englishman were a precious possession in danger of being stolen away. "I sold my soul. A demon came to me, years ago, and he promised me things. I believed him, and he took my soul. All this time I've lived for him, and done his bidding, and now I want _out_. I want to be me again, even if it's just to die. So don't try to tell me to back off, and _don't_ try to tell me that you'll stop me. I am _very_ determined, and I have been the very definition of unstoppable for the best part of eighty years." His teeth clacked together, the lips drawing back again, this time in a snarl. "If I give up Ichabod Crane, I will be released. I know it. It's the exchange I've been searching for for years." 

"You work for Moloch?" snapped Abbie. He shook his head, his eyes never once leaving Irving, and his still oblivious load. 

"There are others. So many others. I don't think you begin to realise. The demon I serve has fought Moloch for hundreds of thousands of years. A rivalry over dominions, or somesuch. If I give Crane to my master, he'll have power over Moloch, and then he'll grant my wish." 

"Or he may just kick your sorry ass to the kerb." Abbie took a step forward. "No deal. Now if I can't shoot you, get the hell out of here, because believe me, I'm more than willing to experiment." 

"You cannot stop what has already begun." Pale, yellowing eyes narrowed into a glare, as they flicked briefly in her direction. Abbie was through listening. This dark room, darker now than ever, was closing in on her, and she had had her fill of it. Nearby, Irving shifted restlessly. 

"Watch us," he said, and began, very slowly, to back away. On his shoulder, the familiar voices perhaps finally beginning to filter through to him, Crane stirred. 

"What's happening?" he asked, in a distant, dreamy mumble that was a very long way from his usual peremptory bark. "I appear to be... upon somebody's shoulder?" 

"Hold on, Crane. Another couple of minutes and we'll be out of here." Abbie stared pointedly at their host – or, more precisely, at the giant, curved blade in his hands. "That is unless our friend here really wants three automatic pistols tearing his upper body to shreds. Immortal or not, that's still gotta hurt." 

"Suit yourself." The man moved back, arms spread as though in quiet acceptance. "But don't say I didn't warn you." 

"Lieutenant, something strange is—" 

"Not now, Crane." Abbie, her eyes still focused solely upon the yellowing shadow of a man standing before her, began to edge towards the steps. Irving followed, Jenny bringing up the rear. The second Mills sister had a gun in each hand now, her torch held expertly alongside one of them, the weapons moving with her eyes to cover the entire room. Abbie almost smiled. For all their differences, for all their many points of contention, she was hopelessly glad to have her sister here right now. There were few better people to have on your team in a fight. 

"You're making a big mistake." 

"Yeah, well you'd know all about that." Jenny glanced his way only briefly, her expression showing that she considered the sorry specimen of humanity worth no more than that. He smiled faintly; and then, backing away, he placed himself in the centre of the pentagram and closed his eyes. 

"Your friend belongs to Ahriman now. The time for warnings is over." 

"Lieutenant—" 

"In a moment, Crane." But there was not a moment to be had. Very deliberately their host leaned over, and rapped three times on the floor with his scimitar. All at once the five candles leapt back into life, and from beneath the ground there was a dull and distant rumble. 

"Run," suggested Jenny. Abbie gave a sharp, determined nod, but the very floor itself was against them. Even as she took a step, the concrete began to ripple, the hard surface turned at once to a strange, soft texture. She could feel her feet beginning to sink. 

"What the hell...?" Kicking at the strange, soft ground, Irving wobbled awkwardly, top heavy and off balance. Crane struggled in his grip, and Irving bent slightly, allowing him to get down. The Englishman looked none too steady, still too pale and still too cold, although there was a familiar determination showing in his eyes. 

"Now probably isn't the best time to ask what's going on," he observed, just before the floor lurched beneath them, washing up and down like waves on a restless sea. They all lurched with it - and over at the pentagram, a hand began to emerge from the ground. It was the colour of the concrete – it seemed to be made from the concrete itself – but as it reached up, stretching out its fingers, it began to take on a colour of its own. All too obviously, something was beginning to break through. 

"My master arises," said their host, and with a deep bow to the emerging hand, he knelt on the floor. The pentagram was solid beneath him, the only firm and level place in the room, and the candles surrounding him were growing brighter with every moment. 

"We need to get out of here," said Jenny, but as they tried to make it to the door, the floor turned against them, the waves of enchanted concrete rising and falling with ever greater intensity. It clung to their feet, grabbing at their ankles, and reaching up as though to drag them down. Abbie kicked herself free, but it was clear that they were not going to be able to reach the door. 

"Perhaps if I were to stay?" suggested Crane. Abbie shot him a sharp look. 

"We spent two and a half days trying to figure out where you were. The least you can do is stay rescued." 

"My apologies." His smile was faint, but appreciative. Jenny loomed out of the darkness between them, effectively ending the discussion. 

"I say we shoot that creep and have done with it," she said, kicking out at the grasping concrete at her feet. The 'creep' in question was still on his knees, chanting softly under his breath. His eyes were closed, but there was nothing serene about his countenance. Before him, a second hand came up from beneath the ground – and alongside it the dark, blood red form of a serpent, its black tongue flickering in the air. 

"I fear that your guns will serve no purpose here, Miss Jenny." Steadying himself for a moment, Crane took a step forward, gaze fixed on the kneeling figure up ahead. "But perhaps there is something that you could try." 

"If you've got any smart ideas, English, spit them out." Jenny fired at the serpent anyway, but although the bullet struck sparks off the concrete beneath it, the creature showed no reaction. Instead it began to entwine itself around the legs of their host, as the hands in the ground rose up higher still. There were forearms visible as well now, and what looked like the sleeves of some kind of robe. Soon enough, it was clear, there would be much, much more. 

"The candles," said Crane, who had apparently found his footing on the undulating floor. "All of you, turn out your torches, and then see if you can shoot the candles." 

"If you think it'll help." Abbie drew a bead on one, Jenny on two others, and Irving, drawing level, sighted at a fourth. "Where are you going to be? I don't think you want to get hit by a shot meant for a candle." 

"I shall stay back until the lights are extinguished, have no fear." He was pulling ahead nonetheless, but she left him to it. Pale and wobbly or not, he was a soldier. Drawing in a breath, she focused on the tiny target of the candle tip, where wick met molten tallow. A second later her bullet snuffed out the flame. 

There were seven shots, four for the first four flames, and then three others in a free-for-all for the fifth. Darkness fell, and for a moment, in that weird, unearthly place, with its rising hands, and its hissing serpent, and its weird, ill-tempered floor, Abbie felt a powerful yearning for the light. She wanted to turn her torch back on, but she waited – a handful of seconds that felt like half an hour – before suddenly, in a rush, the candles came back to life. Their flames leapt high once again, but this time the scene that they illuminated was a different one. In the centre of the pentagram, Crane was wrestling with his captor, and the serpent reared up beside them in hissing rage. The battle seemed likely to go either way, Crane not at full strength, but his opponent clearly no great fighter. Sallow, bony hands flailed in the air, fingernails lashing out at Crane's face, and the great, curving blade of the scimitar waving with little finesse. Ignoring the fingernails, and the one grabbing, thumping hand, Crane went straight for the sword. For a moment they wrestled over it, the serpent snapping and biting in their midst; and then, finally, it was Crane's. He stumbled back a pace, putting some distance between them, weighing the unfamiliar weapon in his hands. 

"You cannot dishonour Ahriman!" roared his dishevelled opponent. Crane said nothing. He merely stepped forward, and with a powerful swing of a considerably more powerful weapon, he severed the yellowed head from its shoulders. It flew, lank hair flapping, in a rough arc, before hitting the waves beyond the pentagram. The hands grabbed at it, tearing the hair from the head, ripping the jaw from the skull; and from somewhere beneath the earth there came a terrible, furious scream. 

"I think now might be a good time to leave," said Crane, but even as he spoke the hands were gone, the serpent, left behind on firm ground, turned abruptly to stone. Even the floor was still again, frozen in the undulating shapes of its impossible waves. Clearly shaken, Crane wavered uncertainly for a moment, then tossed the bloodied scimitar to the ground. Around him, the candle flames sank back to a more regular height, spitting and flickering as one by one they began to go out. 

"You okay, Crane?" Fumbling with her torch, Abbie turned the beam on him immediately. He shielded his eyes with a hand, blinking at her from half the room away. At his feet the headless corpse of his kidnapper was already a skeleton, the bones emerging from the decaying fragments of its tattered and mouldering clothes. 

"I am quite well thank you, lieutenant. Better than our friend, anyway." 

"Was that a lucky guess?" she asked, hurrying over to join him. He smiled at her, although it was a tired gesture, his usual vigour absent. 

"Would you think any less of me if I said yes? I suspected that his part in the ritual was an important one. I also speculated that the demon attempting to rise would be none too pleased with him if things went wrong." 

"But he said that we couldn't kill him," said Jenny. Crane frowned. 

"He did? Oh. Well, a beheading will tend to be fatal. In most cases." 

"It's good to know that it does still work for some people," said Abbie. Crane nodded, staring down at the ragged skeleton. 

"Indeed. I wonder who he was. Whatever he wanted, I fear he's extremely unlikely to get it now." 

"Somehow I don't feel too inclined to be sympathetic. Now come on. Let's get the hell out of here." 

"Aptly put." He made no objection when she linked her arm through his, leading him away towards the steps, and pausing only to gratefully accept his boots and coat from Irving. Together the little group made their way up to the rooms above, and from thence out into the grey light of a rather half-hearted morning. Crane pulled on his coat immediately, sitting down on a low stone wall in order to pull on his socks and boots. 

"Feel more human now?" asked Abbie. He smiled. 

"I've felt more so. I am most grateful to you. To all of you. I fear I was no use at all to myself in there. My memory is somewhat jumbled, but I do recall being quite unable to affect any sort of an escape." 

"That's okay. That's what friends are for." Abbie sat down beside him, waving a hand to the others. Irving was heading to his car, presumably to check in with the station, and Jenny was with him. She seemed to enjoy tagging along with the captain, a fact which had not escaped her sister's attention. In a less tired moment, Abbie might have speculated a little more about what exactly was going on there. "Seriously though, Crane. You okay? You donated some blood to that creepy experiment in there, and we have no idea how much. You felt pretty damned cold, too." 

"I still do." He smiled at her, and she was relieved to see some colour coming back into his cheeks. "But I'm warming up. Good company is as much a tonic as a fine wine or a hearty meal." 

"Not many fine wines around here." She stood up, finally stowing her gun away in its holster. "How about going in search of a beer?" 

"That would be most pleasant, yes." 

She smirked. "You know, you could have just said 'Yeah'. We really ought to work on your English, Crane." 

" _My_ English is fine," he retorted, the light in his eyes showing that he appreciated the moment's levity. "It is your... whatever it is that you speak... that requires adjustment. If you like, I could instruct you on your grammar." 

"Yeah. Let's not do that." 

"No?" He smiled, and together they climbed into her car. She shot him a mock glare in return as she gunned the engine. 

"No isn't nearly a big enough word." 

"Point taken." He looked away briefly, out at the little town as it began to move past their windows. "Abbie?" 

"Yeah?" She was taken by surprise, his use of her first name so rare that it always caught her attention. He looked back at her then, meeting her gaze and holding it. 

"Thank you. Again. Had you not come when you did..." 

"Glad to help." She smiled at him, and swung the car in at the turning to a quiet-looking bar. It was the first one that she had seen, and she did not know it. She had no idea what it was like inside, and she didn't care. She just wanted something normal. Something grounded and ordinary and real – and something with beer. "Although I could point out that that's twice now." 

"Twice?" he asked, and she smirked back at him, eyebrows raised in a challenge. 

"That I've had to come running to the rescue. It's starting to become a habit." 

"Should you ever find yourself in mortal peril at the hands of a mysterious abductor, I assure you, I would be quite willing to return the favour." 

"If it's okay with you, I'd just as soon not bother." 

He smiled, then in a rough approximation of an American accent, grunted: "Yeah. Sure." 

"That was terrible," she told him. He laughed. Behind them, Captain Irving's car had just driven up, the captain and Jenny emerging together, with very evident purpose. Crane opened his door immediately, playfulness gone and propriety restored with the approach of company. Abbie followed suit. She was tired, and a rest in the car, in quiet company, would have been quite pleasant – but the thought of the bar, and her original intent, restored her spirits. Noise and bustle and ordinary people, battling their ordinary concerns; that was where she wanted to be. Crane opened the door for her, offering a mock bow as he allowed both she and Jenny to pass. Jenny glared, and Irving laughed. Beyond the door, other people were laughing too. If there were demons inside, they were secure in a thousand coloured bottles, and were nothing that Abbie need fear. It felt safe. For a while at least, she knew that she would too.

 

The End


End file.
